Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,153

was his own company.

He supposed he must have alluded to this in one of his many letters to the mysterious Eloise Bridgerton, because he had sent off his proposal of not-quite-marriage-but-maybe-something-leading-up-to-it over a month ago, and the silence on her part had been deafening, especially since she usually responded to his letters with charming alacrity.

He frowned. The mysterious Eloise Bridgerton wasn’t really so mysterious. In her letters she seemed quite open and honest and possessed of a positively sunny disposition, which, when it all came down to it, was all he really insisted upon in a wife this time around.

He yanked on a work shirt; he planned to spend most of the day in the greenhouse, up to his elbows in dirt. He was rather disappointed that Miss Bridgerton had obviously decided he was some sort of deranged lunatic to be avoided at all costs. She had seemed the perfect solution to his problems. He desperately needed a mother for Amanda and Oliver, but they’d grown so unmanageable that he couldn’t imagine any woman willingly agreeing to cleave unto him in marriage and thus bind herself to those two little devils for life (or at least until they reached majority).

Miss Bridgerton was eight and twenty, however; quite obviously a spinster. And she’d been corresponding with a complete stranger for over a year; surely she was a little desperate? Wouldn’t she appreciate the chance to find a husband? He had a home, a respectable fortune, and was only thirty years of age. What more could she want?

He muttered several annoyed phrases as he thrust his legs into his rough woolen trousers. Obviously she wanted something more, else she would have had the courtesy to at least write back and decline.

THUMP!

Phillip glanced up at the ceiling and grimaced. Romney Hall was old and solid and very well built, and if his ceiling was thumping, then his children had dropped (pushed? hurled?) something very large indeed.

THUMP!

He winced. That one sounded even worse. Still, their nurse was up there with them, and she always managed them better than he did. If he could just get his boots on in under a minute, he could be out of the house before they inflicted too much more damage, and thus he could pretend none of it was happening.

He reached for his boots. Yes, excellent idea. Out of earshot, out of mind.

He donned the rest of his ensemble with impressive speed and dashed out into the hall, making quick strides toward the stairs.

“Sir Phillip! Sir Phillip!”

Damn. His butler was after him now.

Phillip pretended he didn’t hear.

“Sir Phillip!”

“Curse it,” he muttered. There was no way he could ignore that bellow unless he was willing to suffer the torture of his servants hovering over him, concerned about his apparent hearing loss.

“Yes,” he said, turning around slowly, “Gunning?”

“Sir Phillip,” Gunning said, clearing his throat. “We have a caller.”

“A caller?” Phillip echoed. “Was that the source of the, ah . . .”

“Noise?” Gunning supplied helpfully.

“Yes.”

“No.” The butler cleared his throat. “That would have been your children.”

“I see,” Phillip murmured. “How silly of me to have hoped otherwise.”

“I don’t believe they broke anything, sir.”

“That’s a relief and a change.”

“Indeed, sir, but there is the caller to consider.”

Phillip groaned. Who on earth was visiting at this time of the morning? It wasn’t like they were used to receiving callers even during reasonable hours.

Gunning attempted a smile, but one could see that he was out of practice. “We used to have callers, do you recall?”

That was the problem with butlers who’d worked for the family since before one was born. They tended to think highly of sarcasm.

“Who is this caller?”

“I’m not entirely certain, sir.”

“You’re not certain?” Phillip asked disbelievingly.

“I didn’t inquire.”

“Isn’t that what butlers are meant to do?”

“Inquire, sir?”

“Yes,” Phillip ground out, wondering if Gunning was trying to see how red in the face his employer could get without actually collapsing to the floor in an apoplectic fit.

“I thought I’d let you inquire, sir.”

“You thought you’d let me inquire.” This one came out as a statement, Phillip having realized the futility of asking questions.

“Yes, sir. She’s here to see you, after all.”

“So are all of our callers, and that has never stopped you from ascertaining their identities before.”

“Well, actually, sir—”

“I’m quite certain—” Phillip tried to interrupt.

“We don’t have callers, sir,” Gunning finished, quite clearly winning the conversational battle.

Phillip opened his mouth to point out that they did have callers, there was one downstairs that very moment; but really, what was the point? “Fine,” he